Defective
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: '"He may speak for the good of Asguard, but he's always been jealous of Thor!" Sif's words sent a spike of irrational anger down Loki's spine. He clenched his fists. The Liesmith was not accustomed to hearing the truth.' A study of Loki, from the events of Thor leading on to the Avengers, and all that lies in between. For CrypticNymph.


A/N: _Firstly, I'm back! Yes! It's me! Exams are over, and for the first time in too long a time I can sit down and write fanfic. For those wonderful readers waiting for an update on Rage and Serenity, it's in the works as I write this! As is the next chapter of the Doctor and Detective! Woohoo!_

_Secondly, this fic is a birthday present for my absolutely fabulous friend Bethan! (Cryptic Nymph on here, check her out! She writes some seriously kick ass Sherlock fics! But don't get any ideas. She's mine.).Her birthday -I'm ashamed to admit- was in May. Anyway, Happy Extremely late Birthday dear! _

_Thirdly, I'm currently in a love affair with the Avengers, and Loki. And this is my first time writing any sort of fic about them. So be gentle, please! I think it's more of a character study than a story I suppose, but I hope you enjoy!_

_I've quoted Robert Burns' ' To a Mouse' and John Milton's 'Paradise Lost' here, so those works belong to those respective gentlemen._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or anything in this Marvelous (get it? ;D) universe, so no law suits please!_

_Warnings: Lots of Loki feels, if you're particularly pervious to them!_

* * *

Defective, and at a Dangerous Disadvantage

-An Avengers fic-

by Blackcurrant Bonbons

* * *

'_We should not pretend to understand the world only by the intellect; we apprehend it just as much by feeling. Therefore, the judgement of the intellect is, at best, only half of the truth, and must, if it be honest, also come to an understanding of its inadequacy_.'

– Carl Jung

* * *

"_He may speak for the good of Asguard, but he's always been jealous of Thor!"_

Sif's words sent a spike of irrational anger down Loki's spine. He clenched his fists. The Liesmith is not accustomed to hearing the truth.

* * *

"_I will not fight you brother!"_

"_I'm not your brother! I never was!"_

Underpinning the rage that consumes him is a new pain, a self-inflicted wound that he has caused by uttering those defining words, and so cutting himself off from his brother forever...

* * *

"_It all makes sense now, why you favoured Thor all these years, because no matter how much you claimed to love me, you could never have a Frost giant sitting on the throne of Asguard!"_

* * *

"_We were raised together. We played together. We fought together. Do you remember none of that?"_

Thor's words sting. Of course he remembered. His memories of his time in Asguard are seared into his mind like a brand; they are acidic, toxic, and painful to touch. Nothing, neither magic or spells, can remove them.

They are his scars, and his brother's words rip open the just-healed scabs, exposing them to the worlds. He feels naked and exposed under Thor's searching gaze.

Loki's face twisted into a bitter mask, his thoughts a mangled myriad of betrayal, raw bleeding pain, and hatred. The throbbing ache in his chest, which he has lived with for as long as his memory spans, returns to full force, and his knees buckled under the crippling weight. However, he remained standing.

"_I remember a shadow, living in the shade of greatness. I remember you tossing me into an abyss. I who should have been king!"_

* * *

"_So I am no more than a stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me!"_

His whole life was a lie.

Odin collapsed. Inside, Loki collapsed also. It was only then that he fully realised-

_Love was a dangerous disadvantage. _

* * *

"_Why have you done this?"_

"_To prove to Father that I am a worthy son!"_

-Why was Thor so blind? Could he not see that this was the only way in which Loki could gain Odin's respect?-

(_Perhaps more than respect...?)_

* * *

'_The best laid schemes o' mice and men,_

_Gang aft agley,_

_And leave nought but grief and pain,_

_For promis'd joy!'_

* * *

"_I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you! For all of us!"_

"_No, Loki."_

Both Odin and Thor refuse to understand, being the stubborn, foolish mules that they have always been. _Like father, like son_, he thought, a bitter taste on his tongue, with no amount of irony in his words. Unwillingly, he conjures up images of Laufey, his blue blood now dry on Loki's stained hands.

He served no purpose in Asguard. He has never belonged, and now he cannot bear to even continue trying to. He has magic, and knowledge, and those brutish, unrefined Asguardians will never understand him. For too long he has been the brunt of their jokes and humiliating pranks.

He is a Frost Giant. (_the monster parents tell their children about at night)_ His existence up till this point has been a lie, the facade of which is crumbling beneath his fingers, which are desperately scrambling for a hold, any excuse not to let go.

He has killed his blood Father, and almost succeeded in killing the other. He is wanted in neither worlds.

Suddenly, he was falling, down, down, into the gaping abyss, alone...

"_In the end, it will be every man for himself..."_

* * *

'_Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile_

_Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd_

_The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride_

_Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host_

_Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring_

_To set himself in Glory above his Peers,_

_He trusted to have equal'd the most High,_

_If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim_

_Against the Throne and Monarchy of God_

_Rais'd impious War in Heav'n and Battel proud_

_With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power_

_Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie_

_With hideous ruine and combustion down_

_To bottomless perdition, there to dwell_

_In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,_

_Who durst defie th' Omnipotent to Arms.'_

* * *

He was Loki, of Asguard, and he was burdened with glorious purpose once more.

"_You lack conviction."_

As the dying mortal muttered those words, a small, shunned, insignificant voice in Loki echoed them also, and in that moment, he knew that he has lost, before the battle has even really begun.

* * *

"_You're gonna lose." _

"_Am I?"_

"_It's in your nature."_

"_Your heroes are scattered, your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?" _

Sentiment.

* * *

"_Look at this! Look around you! You think this madness will end your rule?"_

"_It's too late. It's too late to stop it." _

"_No. We can, together."_

Sentiment.

* * *

Loki drove the dagger into Thor's chest, the lethal blade tearing through the tender flesh like a hot knife through butter. Thor roared in pain, his cerulean eyes widening in shock, and tearing up with the realisation of his betrayal. Loki's disdainful expression remained unmoved as Thor staggered back, and he watched, vaguely amused, as the Thunder God's emotions played across his face in a sickening display of emotion.

Loki sneered, tightening his grip on the knife. "Sentiment," he uttered, carefully inflecting the word with a tone of casual disgust. Beneath the surface was layered centuries of carefully concealed self-inadequacy and loathing. He hated himself for exposing so much.

_Sentiment_, he reflected, _is a defect found in the losing side. It makes one vulnerable, blind to all threats, too trusting, too will willing to forgive and forget._

Loki drove the knife in further, and Thor choked. It was now buried hilt-deep into Thor's chest, but this was not nearly deep enough to satisfy Loki, and he drove the knife in further, entirely focused on reciprocating the pain that his brother had caused him.

_These mortals are so full of sentiment, choking on it even. It is their weakness, and I will make it their downfall. And you, my weak, blind little brother, have allowed yourself to be corrupted by them._ And, he thought with a smirk, _Sentiment will be your downfall also. _

_(Is that thought only directed at Thor? Perhaps.)_

* * *

As the now dead mortal had predicted, he had lost. His magic was bound by the suffocating contraption that they had shoved uncaringly into his mouth, and the coppery residue of the metal turned his saliva into blood.

* * *

_Am I cursed?_

* * *

"_You think yourselves above them?"_

"_Well, yes," _lied the Liesmith.

_Because I am the monster parents tell their children about at night._

_I am Loki, not of Asguard, not of Jotunheim, not of Midiguard._

_I am cursed._

* * *

'_But his doom_

_Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought_

_Both of lost happiness and lasting pain_

_Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes_

_That witness'd huge affliction and dismay_

_Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:_

_At once as far as Angels kenn he views_

_The dismal Situation waste and wilde,_

_A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round_

_As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames_

_No light, but rather darkness visible_

_Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,_

_Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace_

_And rest can never dwell, hope never comes_

_That comes to all; but torture without end.'_


End file.
